


Can't Make Me Jealous

by ComeAlongPond14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clubbing, Drunken Flirting, First Time, Jealous John, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dance club. John gets jealous and stakes his claim. (First time).</p><p>Title is from Chris Crocker's "Second to None." HOT LISTENTOIT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Make Me Jealous

**Author's Note:**

> The most plotless porny PWP I've written, I legitimately believe. I'm almost sorry. BASICALLY I cannot seem to shatter the evil glass cage that is writer's block, and there's some part of me that's struggling to write anything real for fear of letting you AMAZING readers down...annoying...so I sat down, told my brain to shut up, and typed this out without letting myself quit.
> 
> So...I will...try....to get real stuff going again....
> 
> (Guuuuuys this is my 20th piece posted here. That excites me. I'm weird.)

The conversation with their suspect had already proven pointless by this time, and Sherlock had given John the signal that this was not their man. He would have been perfectly content to move on, then, and probably to leave the club they were sitting in, because it was frankly trashy. Bad music playing too loudly, overpriced drinks that didn’t have enough alcohol, and most of the “couples” on the dance floor appeared to be more fucking than actually dancing. Idly John wondered how many actually knew their partners, and how many were having one-night...er, one-dance-stands.

The rather obnoxiously loud laugh of their no-longer-a-suspect companion drew his attention back to the other two men at the table, and John was startled to see that the man was now leaning quite close to Sherlock, and judging from the angle of his outstretched arm disappearing under the table, he had a hand placed rather high on the detective’s thigh.

Hot irritation sparked through John, and his gaze jumped to Sherlock’s face, expecting the usual chagrin or disinterest his flatmate tended to feel at physical contact with strangers. Instead, he nearly choked on his beer as he saw that Sherlock had his head tilted to better hear the undoubtedly filthy words being murmured in his ear, and a smirk was playing across his lips as he slid a hand under the table, apparently returning the caress.

Common sense said, let him have this, if he’s actually interested. Common sense said, excuse yourself silently to Sherlock and leave, go have a night off, let him have some fun. Common sense said, _you’re straight_ and not bothered that he’s actually responding to someone’s advances-- _how could he not, he’s practically getting a handjob at the table?_

Fuck common sense.

John heard the sound that emerged from his mouth; it was a growl, low and possessive and rather inhuman. He saw Sherlock’s startled glance, and the way the handsy prick shot him a confused and scornful look, dismissing him as not a threat. To hell with that.

John stood, grabbing Sherlock by his coat and dragging him from his stool, saying a short, “Pleasure talking with you,” in the intruder’s general direction, and heading directly for the loo.

They made it as far as the hallway before he felt Sherlock yanking away, and he spun to face him. The detective’s face was closed-off and bewildered, his eyes glinting with suspicion. “John, what on earth is the matter? He was--”

“Not our guy, yeah? You signaled me. So why did we need to let him grope and fondle you?”

There was an uncomfortably long pause, and then suddenly, a feral grin spread across Sherlock’s face. “You were jealous,” he stated, and the delight was clear in his tone. “After all this time, you couldn’t shake it--you were jealous!” As John huffed angrily and turned away, Sherlock laughed out loud, folding his arms. “John, really, you can’t have it both ways. Either you’re not interested, or you are--and unless you are, I can’t just sit around wanting and never even getting to touch you. If you don’t want this, you have to let me go.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake--!” Those words, the mental picture they painted, were too much. Common sense was punched out and left dozing on the floor.

John seized Sherlock by his coat lapels, dragging the taller man down into the most passionate kiss he could muster. Months upon months of pent-up desire, frustration, adoration, and jealousy poured out, and John felt his whole body sigh as if in relief when Sherlock relaxed immediately into the kiss, letting himself be pressed back against the wall, his arms swinging around John’s waist to clutch him closer.

As John’s tongue probed forward, seeking to examine every bit of Sherlock’s mouth that he could, the taller man moaned needfully, his hips rocking forward instinctively, and then he froze, jerking his lips free to pant out, “Sor--sorry, John, I didn’t mean to--”

John laughed, yanking him in for another kiss. “Looks like I can’t play the ‘not gay’ card anymore,” he muttered devilishly, pressing his own hips forward so that their cocks were pressed together, achingly hard and oh god, they were rutting together now, Sherlock panting and gasping John’s name ever so prettily in his ear, begging for release.

John didn’t refuse him, dropping one hand to yank at the detective’s belt and zipper with alcohol-fuzzed coordination, but he managed to successfully get his hand inside his flatmate’s trousers. The feel of him, hot and thick and heavy, pre-cum staining the front of his silk pants, made John groan helplessly, leaning up to press swift, hard little bites onto the taller man’s neck. Sherlock keened at the tiny darts of pain, thrusting his body into John’s touch, whimpering incoherent pleas.

Their first time was in a semi-public club hallway, hands down trousers and lips silencing one another’s harsh cries of ecstasy as they jerked each other off, and it was utterly and completely not the romantic night of courtship, wine and dining, and love-making John would have planned on if he’d had his senses about him.

But it was in every way totally _them_ , and when they stumbled back into 221B Baker Street that night, ripping at each other’s ridiculous layers as they tripped and tumbled over their own feet getting back to Sherlock’s bedroom, John could not have been happier. When he had a naked, writing Sherlock Holmes stretched out across his bed, grasping the headboard for stability, legs spread obscenely, voice hoarse as he cried out in pleasure and begged John to thrust another finger inside him, to touch his straining prick, _anything_ \--! And when he finally slid in, Sherlock’s legs wrapping around his waist as if to bring him closer, their hands finding each other’s and gripping tightly, their lips coming together in wet, messy, desperately happy kisses, John felt whole again.

 


End file.
